On diaper bags and losing myself.

When I announced that I was pregnant, a writer friend of mine said, "Oh my...you are going to have SO much new material for your blog!"  Another friend said, "Are you going to become a mommyblogger now?"   I'm not sure if the second comment was said with disdain or not, but I surprised even myself by how little I've come to this site over the past 40 weeks.  I think the mommyblogger comment caught me off guard as there is something about that label that makes me feel stabby.  Perhaps because it forces you to join in with a group of people who regularly discuss their sleepless night, love affair with strollers and which organic diapers best suit their little ones behinds.  And really, the demographic that enjoys that sort of content is limited and also somewhat over saturated.

And while those subjects become central to one's existence when there is a miniature person in your life, I think part of me was/is scared that I'll lose a lot of myself in this process.  My friends who are mothers assure me that you actually blossom into an even broader version of who you are meant to be once you become someone's mommy, there is that small part of me that is attached to my shoe collection, my travels and my bucket list and fears that once Dylan makes his appearance, my conversations will deviate from amusing to the consistency of his poops and later display a bumper sticker exclaiming how he made the honor roll at his school.  

I suppose what I'm saying in my typical long winded fashion is that I'm trying to figure out where I go from here writing wise.  I've looked forward to becoming a mommy since I was a wee one myself, so I'm not decrying this new phase in life that is upon me.  It's more that I still want to have this as an outlet...and being that my life is soon to become full of all things Dylan, there may be more of that in here.  And I'm coming to terms with that and hope that you all will too.  Because if there is anything that supplies one with tales of the ridiculous, it's trying to segue from a sophisticated (ha! sort of), completely adult life into one that revolves around a baby that's primary skill is projectile poo'ing.

(And did you know?  Marc has never changed a diaper before?  In his 40 years?  I can't WAIT...although that being said, I also have this vision of coming home and seeing Marc outside, rinsing Dylan off from a safe distance with the hose rather than deal with anything stinky up close.)

So we'll see.  In the meantime, I have only a few more weeks to go and then the bomb of a new baby will be going off in our home.  I can't wait.

Here is a story about how life and death are so entertwined.

It's been a full weekend.  An odd weekend.  A good weekend and a devastating one all within 48 hours.  Yesterday, for instance, we celebrated the impending birth of our son with a group of friends and family.  There was joy and laughter and the all around glow that a new baby brings into the world.  It was good.

And then there is today.  Today I received the news that my friends 13 year old daughter lost her battle with cancer.  She died.  And as I pause in the writing of this, I rub my belly and feel my little son moving around in my belly, full of life.  And it's strange. 

It's always amazed me how joy and pain can be such bedfellows.  Certainly, we spend most of our days hoping to avoid the latter, yet it seeps into our lives in the sneakiest of ways, shaping relationships and bodies and circumstances.  And and I've always held to the dictum that it is our human responsibility to rise above our own personal pains in the best and most graceful ways possible.  But how do you tell someone who has just lost that which is most precious to them that they must pull themselves up by their bootstraps and carry on?  I don't think you do unless you want them to shut the door in your face and never speak to you again. 

And so I'm sad beyond belief for my friend, yet at the same time relieved that her daughter's soul is no longer trapped within the confines of her broken body.  I'm filled with sorrow, knowing that the next months and in fact years will be spent in recovery of the past two years of fighting - I know that my friend and her husband will in fact most likely never recover from having lost a child - and yet there is hope and joy in their two children who are very much alive and will go on to live, to fulfill their dreams and to dance with pain all their own.

But this pain.  It is large.  It brings up the question of why.  Why a little girl?  Why someone so innocent and not some horrid person who squandered their life?  Why did she have to suffer so much?  Why did God look down and say, "I want her back," despite knowing what wreckage it would leave behind?  I have no answers for the slew of "Why's?"  What I do know is that we live in a horribly broken world where there are many things that are not fair and we have no way of understanding.  And I suppose this is where faith comes in.

I've been recently pulled into some squabbling in these past few weeks, the effects of which have made me very tired, sad and feeling as though people have lost sight of what is important.  Another dictum I hold to be true is that we are all in charge of our own happiness...to me, a lot of that is keeping peace with those at I love.  What this event has made reinforced for me is that it is never worth not telling those that you love what is bothering you in a kind and loving manner, asking for forgiveness when necessary, trying to see their side of the story and telling them that you love them.  It disrespects those that wish they just had one more day with the person that they've lost.  So let's all do those we love a solid and communicate, shall we?

Marc and I are naming our son Dylan Thomas after the poet who left behind such a beautiful body of work when he went on to drink himself to death at the Chelsea Hotel.  One might say that our son has no where to go but up from there with that legacy behind him.  But the reason Marc and I chose the name is that we each were struck by a poem of his long before we knew one another.  For Marc it was, "Do Not Go Gently Into that Goodnight" and for me it was, "And Death Shall Have No Dominion" which I will copy here.  This poem has always struck me as being about the lust of life, of love, of adversity and hunger as well as hope and joy and that mad surreality of the world in which it all takes place.  Life will succeed no matter what is done to stop it.  This is to Jensen, who will speak beyond the grave in the souls of her parents and brother and sister who will carry her through their lives.

And death shall have no dominion.
Dead mean naked they shall be one
With the man in the wind and the west moon;
When their bones are picked clean and the clean bones gone,
They shall have stars at elbow and foot;
Though they go mad they shall be sane,
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
Under the windings of the sea
They lying long shall not die windily;
Twisting on racks when sinews give way,
Strapped to a wheel, yet they shall not break;
Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
Split all ends up they shan't crack;
And death shall have no dominion.

And death shall have no dominion.
No more may gulls cry at their ears
Or waves break loud on the seashores;
Where blew a flower may a flower no more
Lift its head to the blows of the rain;
Though they be mad and dead as nails,
Heads of the characters hammer through daisies;
Break in the sun till the sun breaks down,
And death shall have no dominion. 

An adventure!

We went camping! A few weeks ago! I love camping, truly, I do. However I haven't attempted it in some time. Especially since my figure has taken on the description of "spherical." But how hard could it be? Marc had recently bought a new thermarest which was approximately 2mm thicker than my OLD thermarest which in his mind meant a restful nights sleep and in my mind meant that the bump I tried to avoid but invariably found its way under my delicate back during the course of the night might be marginally dulled. If I could drink. Which I cannot. But! Onward!

Most of my friends have reservations about my camping acumen and wonder if Marc somehow is forcing me into these particular activities. I don't know, perhaps my dependency on hot rollers, fake eyelashes and my silk housecoat makes them unconvinced that a city girl like me could possibly rough it. "Of COURSE I love it, darlings!" I say as I powder my decolletage. But it's true, I do. I was hesitant this time around, however, given the pregnancy bit. But you know, it won't be just the two of us much longer and so I thought, "Hang it all...even if I don't sleep for two nights, this is valuable togetherness time!"

We drove up to Yosemite Valley in what felt like newly-wedded bliss. The weather was beautiful, we only took the wrong road once and we arrived at camp well before dark. As we checked into the campsite, the very well meaning camp hosts said, "Please be sure to remove everything from your cars at night as we've had several bear break-ins. One just last night!" Marc smiled and nodded. My mind heard, "BEAR! BEAR! BEAR! BEAR! BEAR! IMMINENT DANGER! MURDER! DEATH!" I turned to Marc, plucking at his sleeve and whimpered, "Are we going to be MAULED this weekend?" And then I immediately broke out into panic-induced hives. You see, for all of the joking I do about wanting to SEE a bear, I really only want to participate in that activity if they are on the other side of a set of bars. And perhaps even some bullet proof glass. My communing with nature is very specific and organized.

But here we were in a campground that even had a bathroom. I like bathrooms! Marc set up the tent on the flattest stretch of earth he could find and I stood by with a large stick to be sure he wasn't attacked from behind by anything large and furry. This made me feel better but had him snorting into the nylon. We wandered around after that for a bit, held hands, had some dinner and then came back to camp where I made Marc escort me to the bathroom and wait outside in the event that the bears liked whatever pregnant hormone twinged scent I was emanating and decided to ferry me off into the outback for a late night snack. This wasn't the particular brand of togetherness he was looking for, but I told him to suck it.

Then it came time to sleep, so I settled into my bag on my 5mm thick thermarest that was also as wide as my hips and proceeded to try to negotiate the bump that indeed was present under my lower back all while Marc drifted off into slumber land as soon as his head hit the pillow. People often ask me, "Why? Why would you sleep on the ground like that when there are perfectly good hotels nearby?" And I really don't have an answer for them other than, "It's part of the experience." "Of what? Having no sleep and an aching body the next day?" In my 20's I would have said something inarguable like, "Psh!" and moved on to the next subject. On this particular night while I tossed and turned and consistently fell OFF of my thermarest and into the gap between Marc and me, I wondered if the Ahwahnee Hotel had late check-in and how far of a walk it would be.

But then I thought of the bears. The bears that were likely lurking along the perimeter of the camp thinking, "Which of these easily clawed through tents should I go for this evening?" And then you wonder what jackass decided that nylon was a great material to make a shelter out of and then your mind just spins and spins and spins at which point you really have to go to the bathroom but you've decided to hold it until dawn as being mutilated on the way to the loo in the middle of the night isn't at all dignified. So you lay on your thin mattress very quietly until you're just about to drift off but are startled awake by a noise from OUTSIDE, but realize it was just the wind. This wakes up Marc who is all, "What? Where? You still up?" and then looks at me like, Perhaps we should make good of this moment, us both being awake! Let's have a party! But that's the last thing on your mind and so you go back to the spinning mind and the sore body and somewhere just before dawn, you fall into a fitful sleep which lasts for about two hours.

This is what I consider a good night!

But then that morning Marc made me breakfast and coffee and broke down the tent and let me sit in the sun while he cleaned up everything and only made me roll up the stupid thermarests which should come in a pregnancy size - meaning next time we're hauling an air mattress in with us. And then we took a long hike which ended some eleventeen million miles later at the top of Nevada Falls where we sat for a very long time on a warm rock, eating lunch and feeling pretty good about ourselves for having slogged all of that way without even whining once.

And I finally had a better answer when that following week as I stretched and tried to work out the kinks in my back as to why I subjected myself to such discomfort and pain. Because I get to spend time with my husband who considers sleeping on the ground preferable to a weekend at the Ritz. And because by doing so I'm rewarded with a happy spouse AND get to see things that not everyone is privy to. Though I have to say, that if we came with a thicker mattress and a maul proof tent, I might be more filled with glee at the prospect. I'm sure you can buy one of those, right?

The pain. It's in my arse.

I've been feeling a bit off lately. My right hip, specifically, has felt like something other than a hip. Like a hot poker, perhaps, or a porcupine. Something that you wouldn't want lodged in your body. Something uncomfortable. The important thing is hip, pain, ouch.

The hip has been a nuisance over the years and has at time morphed into the Hip of Many Horrors. It began some 8 years ago in the Throes of Love, or dating Marc. We were climbing and I was in a chimney some million feet up off of the ground. Not the type of chimney that might produce the smoke from a charming fire, but a chimney like this:

What this photo doesn't convey is that one can get stuck in these things, which my right shoe DID. This was most untimely, as I was trying to go UP and my shoe was happy to stay there and not finish our ascent. So after some choice, unprintable words and Marc pulling the rope up several times (checking my progress and wondering what was taking me so long as he was hungry and I had the snacks) and my screaming up at him, "FOR GODS SAKE STOP GIVING ME A WEDGIE! I AM STUCK!" I went with the old tactic of Yanking Really Hard and freed my foot and tore some muscles that I don't think cottoned to the tearing so much. Meaning the hip never really healed properly as when one is in the Throes of Love, one does not admit to one's boyfriend that one is in terrifying pain. One soliders on! And I did! I finished that climb and descended it and walked back to the car carrying climbing gear and every time Marc turned around and said, "Are you CRYING?" I would blink profusely and comment that I had dust in my eye. But really, I was trying very hard not to weep and continued to do so for what seemed like weeks after wards. My hip finally got wise to the fact that in my early 20's I didn't believe in such things as giving oneself time to Rest and Heal, so it patched itself up as best as it could. And so now once in a while my right hip just inexplicably stops working and I collapse in a heap for no real reason and can also tell you when it's going to rain. It's all very dramatic.

But lately it's been more than an occasional trip to the floor. While on down there, I don't just say, "Whoopsie!" and get up. There is some writhing and some clutching and gasping involved. It's been hurting in a way that I can only describe as pain that gives me the right to complain. A lot. And I try not to do that as an achy hip is optimal on the scale of Things One Could Endure. I'm not, for instance, going through chemotherapy, or having someone point a gun at my head. It's a joint! Silly joint! Stop hurting! But it won't.

This morning I kept evaluating my hip from the discomfort of my bed. Did it hurt? Was I imagining things? Is it really sore or just sore from my poking it? I got out of bed and immediately fell down, so I ascertained from carpet level that perhaps it was time to visit someone who would know more about these things than I did.

There was some poking and prodding at the doctors. And of course, I felt very superior when I told him that the pain stemmed from an old climbing injury - I am a badass! Look at my war wounds from doing a sport that not many attempt! Instead of being impressed, he intimated that perhaps I ought to take up an activity that I was better AT, one that didn't leave me maimed and falling on the floor at irregular intervals. Psh.

SO! It would appear that it is pregnancy related and that I have a raging case of sciatica!

Really?

That is not exciting at all. I was hoping for something with more umph than "Your son is sitting on a nerve and since you have old damage there, you're going to suffer discomfort for the next three months!"

The solution is ice and massage. Two things I can get on board with. Well, the ice more for when there is a margarita involved, but if it brings me some sweet, sweet relief, then I will walk around with a cold pack secured to my right buttock with pleasure.

So if you come over to our house and find yourself being served a warm drink, and should you go over to the fridge to solve this problem and find me swatting your hand away from the ice machine and screaming NO ICE FOR YOU! This is why.

It's either ice in my pants or a permanent hobble. Good fun.

Babies, The Having Of

I've decided that I will no longer address how long it's been since I've written as I believe these pauses in writing might happen with some frequency until the Offspring has made his appearance and we have some semblance of order back in our lives. So see you in, what, 18 years?

In truth, I've been going through what pregnancy books poetically describe as "nesting." This conjures up such bucolic and charming thoughts of wading through a field of some sort, collecting flowers and Other Pretty Things with which to fill ones house in the hopes that everything will be festive and lovely when the child arrives. In reality, it can be pretty hard core. For instance, I'm not sure any member of my family will willingly take a phone call from me for the rest of the year given the amount of work I've put them through the in the past two weeks. We have overhauled the entire house. It's not nesting so much as, "Let's Tear This Bish Down and Start From Effing Scratch."

It came as a shock to both Marc and me that you can't just leave a baby with a few mixing bowls of water and a salt lick and ask the neighbors to check in on it once or twice to be sure he hasn't peed on the bed or started growing pot in the sunbox. Not only is this chap going to require a lot of work on our part, but he also requires a lot of STUFF. Stuff that we didn't have. I was under the impression that we would just empty a bottom drawer and put him in there for a while like the pioneers did, but apparently that is frowned upon. So now, I have a crib in my house, along with some other furniture that I hadn't planned on acquiring. Marc, wisely, fled the country on a "business trip" that involved a week in London followed by a weekend in Paris. I'm still suspicious that it wasn't all just to get out of dodge so that I wouldn't hand him an Allen wrench, some pieces of plywood and say, "HERE! Twirl this! It's going to be the poo changing table!" Though had Paris been my alternative, I would have followed suit. Instead, my parents and siblings are all now in possession of achy joints and broken nails, wondering how it is that I got them to do all of this stuff in the space of ten days. German efficiency! (Always blame genetics.) I think they also feared that they might end up at the bottom of the river if they didn't obey the pregnant woman - such is the power of hormones.

But honestly, I couldn't be more grateful. I'm nearing the 6.5 month mark, and now that everything is complete, I can skate through the last trimester and just enjoy it...that is if you call losing sight of your toes enjoyable. But I'll be able to escape for weekends with my husband, focus on these last months of it just being the two of us, walk the dog, add little things to our sons room here and there and just be at peace knowing that all of the big things are DONE, and done well. I am so blessed in my family.

I'll post photos soon of what we did so that you can sit back and be impressed. For now, however, I have to go shower and throw myself across my bed at the young hour of 8pm. The fatigue is hard to describe, but if I attempted to walk down the street right now, I think I would just lie down in the gutter forever after a few steps. And considering we live across the street from the police station, I'm sure I'd get ticketed. And at my size, it would be considered a moving violation. Who needs that kind of humiliation?

Four week review

Holy crap! It's been a while. I didn't fall into a hole or move to Morocco or get distracted by my ever growing mid-section. It's just been a really, REALLY busy month. In fact, I just realized this week that it is June. JUNE, people. That means that we are half way through the year, I'm half way through my pregnancy and Lost will never be on TV again. EVER. So sad. Great finale, by the way. The island was real, the flash sideways were purgatory. If I have to explain that to ONE MORE PERSON, my head will turn inside out, I swear.

Anyhoo, a brief recap would look like this:

1) Marc discovered the existence of a money tree in our backyard as we bought two new cars and sold our old ones. We now both own proper parent-mobiles, neither of which is a mini-van, THANK THE GOOD LORD IN HEAVEN. My sweet and darling Blaze - the car I have driven since high school - has found a new home with a friend so I can go over and pat her hood once in a while when I'm feeling nostalgic. My new car - Harriet - has all sorts of nifty buttons and features, most of which I have not figured out, mainly due to ignorance and fear of accidentally launching a missile which I'm fairly certain this car could do. Also, the owners manual is about 400 pages thick and that would require a bottle of wine to get through - verboten in my delicate state. My old manual was one page and consisted of two bullet points:

• Insert key and turn to make car start. Use hand crank when this fails. Horse and buggy are out back if this doesn't work either.

• Everything else can be solved with duct tape and prayer.

And this seemed to work for the 18 years that I drove her. Though sometimes I was late to work, what with hitching up the horse and all.

2) I have been nesting like it's my job. There is nothing quite like the realization that come October activities like showering, sleep and a lazy morning perusing Elle Decor will be a thing of the past. The walls need to be painted, like, NOW. By me. Which is what I have been doing with every spare moment. My client who is an OB/GYN asked the other day with a horrified expression, "You're not going up and down a LADDER, are you?" when I explained the paint in my hair. Sensing that this was not a GOOD thing, I lied and said, "Of COURSE not!" But what kind of question was THAT? I mean, how is one supposed to get the corners and stuff if I DON'T go up a ladder? I can't send Kylie up there with a brush attached to her tail, after all. She has no sense of how to paint a straight line. I've tried.

• As a footnote I should add that I've gotten all cowboy about the painting and don't tape or tarp. People regard this with a lot of suspicion, like I'm committing some sort of foul play by not taking proper precautions. But you know how in grade school how they taught you to color IN THE LINES? I'm really good at that. So stop with the gasps, please.

3) I've been doing the kind of writing work that hopefully brings in actual profit. Which takes us so much brain power that at the end of it all I can only really drool onto my keyboard which really doesn't produce the kind of riveting content that you all expect from this site.

4) I've been staring with horror and fascination as my body goes from "svelte" to "sea manatee." Dude. There is a human being in there and no matter how much I acknowledge that fact, I don't think it will really become something more than an abstract idea until I meet our son in October. Marc is convinced that I'm just eating a lot and slipping the doctor a dvd of someone else's sonogram when we go on our visits. In the meantime, I can tell you that maternity pants rule. I'm retiring my Official Eating Trousers and keeping these on standby for every big meal.

This weekend, Marc and I celebrate six years of marriage. We dated for some four years prior to that, so we've put up with each other for roughly a decade. Yay, us! Marc is gifting me with his presence since he has taken my pregnancy as a mandate to go climbing every weekend until the baby arrives for fear that he will NEVER GET OUTSIDE AGAIN. Logical, since my first reaction after giving birth will be to scream "GAH!" at my flabby midsection after which I will chain Marc to the changing table. This is what you do, right? Never allow your mate to have any sort of life again? Or at least until the kid is 18?

Do you sense my sarcasm?

So my gift to him is an afternoon spent at an art exhibit we're both interested in followed by dinner in San Francisco. Which is really a gift to me as well, thus sparing him the need to buy me an anniversary present. See what I did there? I am a giver! Sunday, I'm sure Marc will flee to the forest and I will continue with the painting that never ends. How is it that our house has so many WALLS? My mom always said that life would be so much easier if we just lived in a tent that we could shake out every once in a while, this usually after a morning full of choring. I'm beginning to see her point.

Have a great weekend everyone!

Screw the muu-muu.

I'm just home from the dermatologist. I had to go and have some stitches removed. A mole had gone rogue, had skittered and grown across the back of my thigh. This all happened without my knowledge until one day Marc was brushing his teeth and - as I dried off from my shower - pointed at my rear. His eyes widened and through his froth-filled mouth he chocked, "What the hell is that THING on the back of your leg?"

"WHAT!? Is it moving?" I cried, and after some gymnastic-like twisting, I saw what he was talking about in the mirror. There was the mole - large and dark with a pissed off looking halo of red around it - sitting under my right butt cheek. We decided that calling the doctor was the prudent choice, even though Marc offered to lance it.

I mean, let's face it, I'm super pale. I bathe in sunblock and am the chick in the huge hat with the muu-muu sitting under an umbrella at the beach. Somehow, the family stores of melanin had temporarily run out while I was in utero. My younger brother came along just as a new order had arrived as I'm the only one in the family that is this bone white. I glow. So I'm pretty on top of doing my own skin checks along with getting my dermatologist to eyeball me annually. The first time I went in she screeched and hollered, "HIT THE LIGHTS!" as she was afraid anything coming out of a bulb might burn me. Or cause me to disappear. Then she gave me a pamphlet on SPF clothing. None of which is cute, by the way.

I went to my doctor, a woman who is most likely in her 50's but has had enough procedures and what-not to seem 30. (I say this is an admiring way as when I start getting sick of my crows feet I'm just going to point at her and said, "I'll have what you've been having.") I showed her my mole and she agreed that it needed to be taken off. Immediately. Since she doesn't seem to do that kind of dirty work, she sent me to her partner, a verbose young man who looks perpetually surprised, a trait amplified by the magnifying goggles he wore to inspect my mole. After much pushing and pulling of the area, he hacked off what felt like an acre of skin and then sewed me up with some nylon rope. He tied me off, slapped a band aid on it and said, "It's abnormal, but let's not borrow trouble."

I mostly forgot about it. Except when I had to sit. Or put on underwear. Or pants. Or go to the bathroom. Which is often. Marc suggested that I carry around and employ a hemorrhoid pillow. He might still be blacked out from the blow he took to the head after that one. I should really check on him.

So today I returned to get the stitches taken out and hear the pathology results. Which were vague. Had the lab tech been there, I have a feeling he would have given his diagnosis with a lot of hemming and hawing, "Weeeellllll...it's not the WORST thing we've seen...but it's not the best. Hmmm. It's ABNORMAL, but not within the range where we suggest you PANIC. It's odd. I don't really know...read any good books lately?" The startled looking dermatologist took a more pointed approach. "I need larger margins." I could work with that.

He decided to wait to hack of more skin real estate being that I'm almost five months pregnant. So come December, we'll deal with it. After this discussion he then asked if I wanted him to do a thorough skin check since I hadn't during our initial visit. I told him no, that sitting there pants'less in his office while he blinked awkwardly at me through his magnifying goggles was enough humiliation for one day. We could do that in December when I came in for further maiming.

I plan on keeping the rest of my moles in line. I'm taking a prison lock down approach here. If everyone stays where they ought, my skin gets one hour of outside time a month. The rest of the time the moles are remaining in solitary under a kevlar suit which in turn will be covered by a full body ski bib. Screw the muu-muu. I'm not messing around.

Fifteen thoughts on becoming a mother.

The doctor gave me the news while the ultrasound wand was still inside of me. That alone was traumatic. You’re not supposed to be given bad news while you’re being penetrated. “There is nothing really for you to do. It’s just likely, given what you have going on here, that you won’t be able to conceive. I’m sorry.” She then removed the instrument and patted me condescendingly on my knee. “When you WANT to explore having children, I would say try, but know that you’ll most likely need a medical intervention and even then...we’ll just have to see.” She was calm, but I sensed an undercurrent of pity, as though my faulty uterus was a failure on my part. She shrugged and left. I dressed, left the building and sat on a bench in the wan light of a San Francisco evening. I didn’t move until the sun had set dramatically over the hospital and my seat had gone cold. I had just come in for my annual exam. I hadn’t expected a life-changing verdict. I was 21.

I am one of four children with two older sisters who have four and three children respectively. My first niece was born when I was six. I was a nanny for a family with two children and they had a third while I was in their employ. I started working for them when I was 12 and their oldest was four. I worked for them every summer all through college. I have potty-trained, been spit up and pooped on and can get any child to sleep no matter what the circumstances. Whenever I talked with my friends about our futures everyone always remarked, “Well, Jen will be the first mother and probably have the most kids…” and I would smile and agree. Wasn’t that how life was supposed to go? You worked towards your college degree, found a career and someone to love, married them and then, after a sensible amount of time, started a family? It seemed like an easy enough plan. When I was 17, this is what I thought.

At the moment I found out that I might not be able to have children, my world split into two paths. The one I was supposed to follow veered one way and I went in the other, ridiculous direction - the road down which I might find myself without offspring. I wasn’t supposed to be there. I was supposed to be on that other path. But two roads collided and I took the road I didn’t want to travel because the other one had a sign that said, “CLOSED” across its entrance. And here I was on this other route, feeling lost. It had been a forced departure and there was no way back.

But I was 21. I was single and not in immediate danger of having to tell someone that if they wanted to procreate, they might want to find another uterus. One with an extended warranty. And I hadn’t even though of having children for years…years and years. But for a while after that appointment, I saw babies everywhere and felt heavy at the thought that I might never have one of my own.

And then I fell in love. I thought he was the one. It was passionate and fast and I saw everything I wanted when I caught our combined reflection. One morning as he made breakfast with his shorts slid down to his hips and his hair all slept on wrong, I said, “I think I’m falling in love with you.” I was just as startled as he was. I had never said those words and meant them. He flipped the eggs and looked up at me. There was a long pause and his jaw tensed and relaxed as if he was chewing on his words and then he said, “I think I’m getting there…” And it was then that I didn’t feel safe anymore. I let it go on like that for a while - my youthful inexperience willing his heart to catch up with mine. It didn’t. I couldn’t remain within the still, stagnant well of incomprehension. And so I left. He didn’t stop me. I spent years balanced on the fulcrum of anger and anguish. I was 23.

Later, we are still friends and I meet him for a drink when I’m in town. We sit cross-legged at either end of a bench, like book ends, watching the sun set. He says, “I made the biggest mistake, not fighting for you. Come back. I want to have a family with you. I want you to be the mother of my children.” My head rings with the words. I tell him my secret. I haven’t though about it in some time – there has been no reason to. But his confession deserves one of my own and so I reveal what is broken. His face changes and in his eyes I am now somehow damaged. The world feels tilted as I tell him no - we made the right decision in separating when we did. He doesn’t press the issue and goes on to talk about other things. The sun goes down and we leave and I don’t talk to him again for a very long time. I feel barren for many reasons but I’m simultaneously reminded of how lucky we are when we are spared what we want.

Summer slid into autumn and one night while I out with friends, I met the man that several years later I married. Marcs equilibrium doesn’t tilt easily and I admire that. He always walks around with a trace of a smile, and in that smile is a hint of generosity, as if he expects you to be right about most things and will be kind to you if you aren’t. Being with him, I felt as though someone had turned on all the lights inside of me. I don’t remember exactly when we decided that this was it, that we were each others one. It just happened. And when I told him that my insides might not work properly, that carrying on the family name might turn into something of a science project, he just smiled and said, “That’s fine. I’m not sure I want kids anyways. I’m with you,” and went back to what he was doing. The corners of my mouth hurt from smiling. Our wedding was in June. I carried pink peonies. I was 28.

Marriage with Marc hasn’t always been easy, but our mistakes, our difficulties have been solved and swept aside by mutual acts of will. We went on for years in our cocoon. Marc held me up when the world was unjust, ever offering his helping hand, and I did the same for him. Our friends married and prospered around us, and by and by some of them started having children. This was new for Marc who had not been surrounded by babies as I had. I saw something soften in him as he picked up these new little lives and saw his friends in their faces. He turned to me one day and said, “I want one.” Half sick with fear, I said, “All right. We will try.” I wanted to give him everything he wished for and I was afraid my destiny instead would be to unwillingly sell him short. We had been married for two years. I was 30.

I took my temperature. I peed on sticks. Marc came home at lunch for sex. I was aware of when I was ovulating and when I wasn’t. At first we were filled with glee, like we were getting away with something. That faded. Soon, every month became a heartbreak. Every time I looked in the mirror, my blue eyes shone on the edge of panic and my stomach often hurt, as though I was lifting something heavy. My insides felt like a hushed and vacant space. In my mind, I was permanently sitting on that bench outside of my doctors office in San Francisco, hope washing out of me. I was 31.

“You have time. I mean, it doesn’t look good, but nothing is for sure,” said my new physician. “You know all of your options. You don’t really have to worry about closing up shop until you’re 35. You have, by the way, very happy looking ovaries. Why don’t you just keep trying and then come back in a year?” My insides were wracked with endometriosis. While my ovaries were “happy” they were simultaneously being swallowed by this mass of tissue that was keeping them from doing their job. Despite a large percentage of women suffering from infertility due to endometriosis, there is little research being done to combat this condition. We are simply told that motherhood might not be within our grasp and then given pamphlets on adoption and support groups or told to have surgery that in many cases isn't a permanent solution. The tissue grows back like a cancer. I returned home and summarized what the doctor had said to Marc. He said we would just keep trying…that he didn’t marry me for my eggs. I hadn’t married him for his sperm, either, but knowing that I wasn’t able to give him a child made me feel haggard and spent.

I don’t remember much of 32 or 33. I remember feeling as though the world did not play fair; that it didn’t care if I learned my lessons from it or not. I felt like something washed ashore after a shipwreck. I attempted to forget that we had ever started this project and instead tucked it away with other nonsensical things we said or did. It was filed away next to ideas such as the time Marc thought shaving his head would make him look like a badass and my temporary foray into kick-boxing. I just wanted it to disappear into the ether.

I turned 34. After a harsh winter I crawled out of what felt like a fugue state. We went to Mexico. I sat and looked out over the water. Sun sparkled on its surface; a tiny sailboat tacked. The sky above was an enameled, solid blue and it was here that something inside of me broke and all of the sadness leaked out and away and into the sea and I felt for the first time that I could take a deep breath. I felt as though I was able to stop yearning for more and instead could regard my life and say, “Look. Look at all that I have.” I went up to our room and layed myself carefully down on our bed as if all of my bones were sore and slept deeply. Later, Marc came in after a run and joined me, holding me close. “Are you happy?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied. And he knew that it was not a lie.

Towards the end of the trip, my body had begun to hurt and ache in a way that reminded me of the flu. But it was different. The last night we were there, we went down to the beach to watch the sun set. We stayed long past dark, listening as the ghostly surf rumbled before us. The sand was almost cold and Marc piled a mound of it on my feet, patting it around my ankles. “Have you had your period yet?” he asked. I did the mental math in my head. “I think I’m a little late…but that’s not unusual.” I said this with a great deal of nonchalance, but something inside of me exploded and I found myself holding my breath. That night, as we lay in bed, I adjusted myself to fit alongside Marcs arm and tried to match my breathing to his. I knew. I spent that night staring at the ceiling. Happiness mounted inside of me.

We flew home the following evening, the land beneath us an inky chasm lit by the scattered sparks of suburbia. The next morning, I sat on the toilet and watched the pregnancy test change colors. The second line turned pink. I felt something drop in the hollow of my back and I knelt on the floor staring at this thing, this silly little stick that told me I was going to be a mother. I looked in the mirror. My eyes were filled with brightness. It had happened.

I’ve often felt defeated, as though I’m not a good woman, that I’ve failed those who love me and as though I’m always on the verge of losing my grip on everything. Marc would say that I judge myself too harshly. I would just say that it’s taken me longer than most to find my place in the world and that I had to stretch and break away parts of myself to find this version of me, the one that leans into love and understands how to be a part of this life. And that my faith in things happening as they ought, though sometimes dim and covered in shades of gray, finally brought me to a place of peace. And that perhaps by letting go of my rendition of my story, a new one was finally able to form.

Come October, I’ll know how it’s supposed to go.

Maybe being a mouth breather isn't so bad.

We were fully intending on going to see Date Night on Sunday night. Really. We were going to get up off of the couch and go forth into the world. But somewhere between dinner and the gastrointestinal gymnastics that are usually required for me to digest food, my throat started hurting. And it wasn't just a little tickle. It was as though I had had a side of acid with my salad and then made sure it was REALLY in there by scraping away at the flesh of my esophagus with a dull fork. It was a sudden onset - one moment I was trying to wrestle the remote away from Marc and then the next it hurt to swallow. Or breathe.

We decided to stay in.

"Allergies!" yelled Marc, who is a constant sufferer. His religion is the neti pot and some sort of nasal spray that he jams up his nose each morning and night. That ritual is followed by a hefty, "hhhhhhhhnnccccccCH!" into a tissue which usually results in the deposit of some matter which he then views and comments upon. "Wow! You should see this!"

I've never had allergies that were not food related. And then two years ago I started having a lingering sore throat whenever the pine trees out back were full of pollen. But even then it was more of an annoyance. The two times a year it happened, Marc would say, "NETI POT! YOU SHOULD USE THE NETI POT!" I always declined. My friends, do you know what this is? It masquerades as a charming, miniature tea kettle that you actually force up one nostril (after filling it with a saline solution) then allowing the salt water to flow into one side of the nose and out of the other washing out any lingering debris, pollen, spare change, what have you. Marc always seemed remarkably refreshed and buoyant after his sessions. They proceed like this:

Prologue: Enthusiasm! "Honey! I'm going to go and use the neti pot!"
Stage 1: Deployment!
Stage 2: Euphoria!
Stage 3: VICTORY!

Despite my love of a natural and home remedy, I remained unconvinced. It had problems written all over it, starting with drowning and ending with loss of sex appeal. Then my niece Heidi wrote this about it and I told Marc to stop wielding the stupid thing at me each time I had a sniffle as it wasn't going to happen.

Exh. A - Sudden Loss of Sex Appeal

I can still see that photo when I close my eyes.

But by last night, my congestion had taken a turn for the worse. Marc, unable to stand the thought of spending another night next to his sniveling wife dragged me into the guest bathroom and said, "Look. You're going to do this. I'll do a demonstration first. You are not going to drown. It's not hard. It won't hurt. It will give you tremendous relief." So he showed me. Of course, I knew what was involved, but he was talking to me the whole time while his nose drained, so I thought - ok, this can't be all that bad. And I was sick of breathing through my mouth. He went through his above steps, ended with a flourish and then prepared a pot for me.

My own experience went something like this:

Prologue: Trepidation! Suspicion! Horror!
Step 1: Excitement! Perhaps I'd be able to breathe again! Perhaps some voluminous amount of snot would pour forth and I'll be healed! Sort of like fishing a large clump of wax out of your ears - gross, but so satisfying.
Step 2: Quiet contemplation. Hm. The water just poured out one side, and then half way through, I switched nostrils. Marc watched in fascination despite my demands that he GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT.
Steph 3: THE BURNING! What they don't tell you is that if you tilt your head back just a small amount, the salt water goes cascading down your throat. Which, in my case, was completely RAW. After much sputtering and expulsion of water and snot and other random bits and some unprintable language, I put the damned pot down and blew what felt like a gallon of water from my nose.

I didn't feel much better. But I didn't feel worse. I was more shocked over the fact that I had survived the ordeal even though the outcome - the lack of joie de vivre or even a new pony - was disappointing at best. Instead, I just really wanted to lie down and kept worrying that my head would leak if I leaned over too quickly.

Today, things were worse. Not from the neti pot but just because my "allergies" had blossomed into a full blown cold. I always hate it when a formerly compliant body part suddenly goes rogue on me, and the fact that I use my nose with some frequency and suddenly couldn't made this whole thing pretty disconcerting. I look resplendent, let me tell you...like something that feeds on the flesh of the innocent. I spent the morning at work shouting instructions at my clients from across the room and willing the minutes to move quickly so that I could get home. Despite last nights lukewarm performance, I was holding out hope for the neti pot. Perhaps it was an experience that improved with practice?

I dashed upstairs, prepared the pot and stuck it up my nose and tilted. And waited. And waited. So profound was my congestion that only after a good 30 seconds did a small drip make it's way out of the opposite nostril and into the sink. This was not the progress I had been hoping for and so thought I would speed things along a little bit by taking in a short breath and then forcing it out of my nose quickly. Which did nothing to help my nose.

But my left eye. SWEET TAP-DANCING H MOSES.

I may have some sort of degree in Biology, but even I'm not sure exactly what happened. When I exhaled, the water that was supposed to come out of my nose instead shot out of my left tear duct and splattered all over the mirror which was a good two feet in front of me. I looked on in horror as the liquid gently dripped down towards the counter and wondered if that had actually just happened. A quick survey of my face showed it to be true, and I immediately put down the pot and called Marc at work to ask, "What does it mean if it shoots out of your EYE?"

There was silence on the other end...I think while Marc wondered if he had passed the stage where an annulment might be an option. "It came out of your EYE?" he said in a stage whisper. I relayed the story again in greater detail. He remained silent. He had no answers. I had waded into unknown territory.

I hung up the phone, neither comforted or feeling any modicum of relief. My eye still oozed and I couldn't breathe out of the center of my face. I rinsed the pot and set it back on Marc's prescribed towel and decided that perhaps my relationship with it, though brief, had been turbulent enough to warrant backing away from the device forever. Perhaps, my work here was done.

Perhaps, I'll rely on modern science instead. Perhaps I don't always need to seek out a home, natural remedy first. Perhaps a poultice and twirly dance won't cure the itching. Which is why I immediately went to CVS and purchased some Tylenol Cold & Sinus and have taken to my bed for the rest of the day.

There is still salt water leaking out of my left eye. This is the opposite of rad.

A+

Did you know that everyone seems to know their blood type except me? Which is odd as over the years I've been through my fair share of blood letting, and one would think I would have spotted my blood type somewhere in there. I probably was too busy burying my head in a bucket to much care given my hatred of phlebotomists. What drives you towards that profession anyways? Not that I don't appreciate them. I suppose my severe aversion towards watching my own life support drain away into any number of tubes just makes me balk at the idea of doing such a thing on a daily basis. Can't we just go back to leeches?

So two weeks ago I had to go and have some more blood tests done. Knowing my history, Marc came with me to hold my hand. I believe my nail imprints have finally started to fade from his palm and he's getting the feeling back in his forearm, so vigorous was my clenching. But it helped. I started intently at him and he asked all sorts of ridiculous questions to distract me and the clinician was really very nice and it was the first time I've ever not thrown up after such a visit. 10 points for Marc!

Monday, we went to the doctor to get the results of the test and he turned to me and said in his very kind voice, "You have A plus blood! It's really excellent!" Being that I was an overachiever in school and spent much time wearing a frock made out of goat hair and covering myself in ashes if I DIDN'T receive A's on my work, this was stellar news. I turned to Marc and said, "I HAVE THE VALEDICTORIAN OF BLOOD! I ROCK!" This, of course, in front of my very intelligent doctor, who I then turned to after my gloating and asked, "Great! What type am I?" Marc snorted from the corner and my doctor, with a bemused expression on his face said, "You're A POSITIVE, like I just said."

Oh.

Those first glorious two seconds I thought I had the blood of a superhuman and could go forth and resume licking doorknobs and perhaps even put on my resume, "A PLUS BLOOD, BITCHES!" But no.

It's possible I'm taking this harder than I ought to.

Pink blossoms

The weather has been so fickle lately. We had what my mother referred to as "a REAL German rain" on Sunday. I'm not sure what that implies...that if you stood out in it you'd have a sudden proclivity for Spaetzle and Schnitzel with side of cabbage? Or that you'd suddenly become blond, blue-eyed, precise and efficient (this rain WILL STOP in two more minutes!)? Regardless, it's been wet and then dry and then wet again. And now it's just windy. But I took this the other day on a walk with Kylie and it was a nice reminder that though April seems to need a rather heavy dose of Ativan to deal with its apparent bipolar disorder, that spring is on its way. My lily white skin is looking forward to it. I'm rather sick of people sticking a mirror under my nose to see if I'm still alive and breathing.

No need to call out the cavalry.

Wow!  That last one was cranky, wasn't it?  I got a few emails from people regarding my state of mind and my need to allow my anger to go.  I suppose it could come across that way, but the point I was trying to make it that perhaps we all ought to revisit the Golden Rule and remind ourselves that what we put out into the universe should reflect what we would like bestowed upon us.  I could use the reminder myself.  Especially when I'm in an annoyed mode and barf all of my cantankerous thoughts onto the internet.  Next thing you know I'll be poking at people with my walking stick if they're mouth breathing in my presence. 

So do not worry.  I'm not descending into a negative vortex.  On most days, I'm positively ebullient!  Just not yesterday.  I just don't cotton to those rude types.  That is all.

On manners

I've been frustrated. It's not you, I promise. Well, it MIGHT be you. It depends. I don't know what it is but I've noticed an increased amount of horribly bad manners from the general public and it's getting to the point where when I say, "I hate people!" I'm really only sorta kidding. If even a little.

And I'm not talking about table manners, though I'm the first person to say, "SWEET MOSES CHEW WITH YOUR MOUTH CLOSED!" if you're chomping in my vicinity. Or elbows on the table. That I CANNOT abide by. Were you raised by wolves? My Mother actually made my brother and I endure what she called "Manner Meals" when we were little which included what fork to use when you were seated at a table that had a confusing array and what kinds of conversations were proper to have at dinner parties. This was all so that she could relax if we were ever invited to the White House. She didn't want to be associated with offspring who didn't know their soup from their dessert spoon and ate with their fingers. That would be worse than voting Democrat.

But as much as I despise the above, what I've noticed is a general disregard by individuals for the people around them. I would hope that we would all realize that we are not the only people on this planet. That there are those that perhaps need a door held open for them or for you to just move your grocery cart out of the way rather than leaving it in the middle of the aisle while you ponder the olive oil selection. Today I was at CVS and as I paid my bill, my wallet fell out of my hands and my change scattered everywhere. There were two people behind me, neither of whom were infirm or incapable of bending at the waist, and rather than reaching down to help, they just stood there while I scraped around their feet for my escaping quarters. Really? You're not even going to step aside? You're going to actually look down at me while I reach between your legs for my change and give me a hostile glare? After I chased down the last dime I stood up and turned to the person behind me and said "Thanks!" sarcastically. I'm not proud of this, but by the surprised look I received in return, I think I got my point across.

I'm by no means perfect and could often be accused of being off in my own world, but I'd like to think that when I'm out, that I'm aware of those around me and am willing to help should the need arise. My Mom and Dad raised us under the premise that other people's needs were greater than our own - they were not advocating that we allow ourselves to be taken advantage of but rather to be aware of others and to be the kind of people who politely step aside when we're in the way and have enough spatial awareness to anticipate that kind of thing. I can't tell you how often I'm in a store or a restaurant where people are standing in the middle of a traffic area and I have to actually physically touch them and say, "You're in the way" to get them to move to the side despite the obvious fact that I cannot climb over them in a dress and four inch heels. A simple "excuse me" doesn't even seem to work anymore . Perhaps a swift kick in the shins would deliver the message more clearly.

It's made me crotchety, and I don't like that. I've started being more rude to get my point across, having less patience. I used to assume that people weren't trying to be asses, but now I just feel as though I live in an area where people are so largely concentrated on themselves that simple manners and consideration are no longer considered necessary...that everyone should be aware of THEM. Therefore they should be able to leave their cart where it's a pain to get around, not let the pregnant mom with two small children in line first, not offer their seat to an elderly person and not hold open the door for the person behind them because they are too busy texting some other Very Important Person who is probably talking loudly on their cell phone while at a restaurant.

I mean MY GOD. I feel like at 34 I've turned into my parents who are always muttering something about "kids these days." Instead it's PEOPLE these days. They are bringing me down. I realize I'm entering the Freakout Territory From Which It Is Difficult to Exit Gracefully, but seriously, I'd like to know what I could do besides wear a sandwich board that says, GOT MANNERS? all while standing on the busiest corner in Silicon Valley. Because if one more person cuts in front of me in line all while talking into their Bluetooth headset and then brushes me off when I tell them that THE LINE ACTUALLY STARTS HERE, BEHIND ME, I might just lose it and move us all to Iowa. I hear they know how to chew with their mouths closed there. It's a start.

Sleepless in Mountain View

Hi all! I just thought that since I was awake at 4:30am on a Saturday morning that I would write to you! And Share Why I Am Up! Because when one is AWAKE at these unholy hours, it seems only logical that one should Tell Everyone! Or I'm just delirious! It's hard to say!

About an hour ago, I was jolted awake by this short burst of sound that I think was loud enough to liquefy at least part of my brain. I recognized it immediately as the fire alarm that is hard wired into the house. Not the nice civilized smoke detectors that say, "You know, don't hurry up from your tea or anything, but I think your toast might be burning. No, no...no need to panic...we're just letting you know with this lovely, lilting beep that you might want to consider that something is amiss." It was not that noise. It was a noise more akin to, "THIS IS YOUR LAST DAY ON EARTH GET OUT OF YOUR HOUSE NOW BEFORE THE ENTIRE WORLD COMES TO AN END RIGHT ON TOP OF YOUR HEAD GAAAAAHHHHHHH!" and then your ENTIRE brain liquefies and you die. And the caps are bigger. It was that sound. This alarm has only gone off once. It was this winter and we had made a very enthusiastic fire. It was the kind of enthusiasm that caused smoke to pour forth and no amount of newspaper flapping was going to divert it from every corner of the house. When this foghorn from hell started going off, Marc and I of looked at each other and wondered what kind of demon was possessing our home. We located the noise (an alarm we had never looked high up enough to see - we have delicate necks that don't respond well to craning) and did some MORE vigorous flapping along with a pathetic jump or two up towards the blooming thing and the noise eventually stopped. Kylie didn't come back into the house for hours or stop panting for days, so we thought, "Well, let's not do THAT again!" It was the opposite of fun.

So when that alarm interrupted a VERY IMPORTANT DREAM - I was in the midst of a tête-à-tête with Timothy Olyphant - I was annoyed. It was only a 3 second burst but enough to get my heart racing in a way that would indicate defibrillator pads needed to be employed. I lay there waiting for my heart to stop pounding - or just STOP (which took a while), rolled over, started to drift off, and the stupid thing went off AGAIN. I got out of bed, went out into the hallway, shook my fist at it a few times and said, "JUST SHUT UP ALREADY!" Kylie in the meantime was weaving around my ankles so I went to let her out as any noise like that usually ends up with her vomiting on my feet. As I was downstairs, the alarm went off two more times, and I knew sleep was futile. I went to our circuit breaker box and looked to see if anything would indicate I could cut power to the thing. Nothing. I went and stared really, REALLY hard at it. It went, "BLLLLARRRRRGGGHHHHAAAAAAA!!!!!" at me again. If this thing had a middle finger, it would have been rubbing it with glee into the middle of my forehead.

I called the non-emergency 911 number for Mountain View. The woman on the other end of the line sounded less than impressed about someone calling with a malfunctioning alarm. "Can't you just check to see if the battery is old?" she asked, I'm sure filing her nails and snapping her gum in boredom. I had this whole visual of how she looked that dated back to a wartime operator in the 1940's - sort of like this only less cheerful:


I'm fairly certain that is not what was on the other line, but it's what came to mind. I considered adding, "Oh, and my carotid artery is spewing blood!" just to get her attention, but what I really wanted was to go back to sleep.

I explained that we have VERY VAULTED ceilings and that there was just no way, despite my climbing prowess, that I was going to be able to reach up that high. She sighed and said, "Allllll riiiiiiight. I'll send out the firemen." I imagine that she rolled her eyes to her fellow operators as she connected my call.

The advantage of living so close to the firehouse is that they showed up in less than five minutes. I had a Claire Dunphy in Modern Family moment and wondered if I had enough time to change and put on my eyebrows, but I was distracted as the alarm went off two more times and then Kylie deposited her dinner into the ivy out back. Better there than my feet.

They sent out three firemen (all of whom were VERY good looking...and here I was in old sweats! Without so much as a swipe of lip gloss!) who all seemed rather bemused that this blond person with no discernible facial features couldn't deal with something so trivial as a fire alarm.

Long story short, the alarm didn't go off ONCE while they were here. NOT EVEN ONE TIME. The brought in a Very Large Ladder and went up to the alarm to have speaks with it - it remained silent. All the while I willed it to GO OFF, but it just smugly sat there, thinking, "I'll just bide my time and wait until they leave and she is just on the border of sleep..." It would appear that our system is just very, VERY old and they couldn't disable it, so after about 25 minutes of mucking about, the three of them said, "Well, good luck with that. Call an electrician in the morning." I did a very good job of not clinging to their ankles and saying, "TAKE ME BACK WITH YOU SO THAT I CAN GET SOME REST! I DON'T NORMALLY LOOK THIS WASHED OUT!" Instead I just forlornly watched as the Very Good Looking Men left. I let Kylie back into the house and now am shuttered away in my office, writing this to you.

Marc is, of course, out of town and not privy to all of this excitement. I think I'll give him a smidge of the experience when he gets home by pouring some ice water over his head around 3:30am. It's only fair. Or, does anyone have an air horn I could borrow?

I promise, I'll get back to stories that don't include my reno. Soon.

The cabinets are done!  Ponies for everyone!  Today our cabinet people finished the last little bit of work, Marc handed them the final check while I hid in the corner and finished the vermouth.  I had suddenly realized that all of that packing I had done last week needed to be UNPACKED...and put away. The thought made me want to weep into my fists, BUT! There is a new kitchen at the end of all of this, so onward I shall press.

Photos! We are without granite, but that will be coming on Wednesday.

Although even sans granite it's a sight lot better than it was before. Say it with me: NO MORE ORANGE BIRDS! And yes, that is a very large sink. We plan on using it as an extra bath in the event of an onslaught of guests.

I call this, "Stove with Drill and Random Detritus."

I'm going to have to get rid of the pathetic blue drapes. I hung them three years ago as they were preferable to those horrid vertical blinds that hang in every apartment in your 20's. Like many things in my house, I stopped seeing them after a while. But our new kitchen so clearly demands better accessories that I'd best heed the call and take care of that before the cabinets up and leave on account of my poor fabric choices.

And here is what I did this afternoon because I just wasn't ready to face unpacking and it was 70 degrees out and...well...how could I NOT be outside?

Happy dog. Yay.

My name is Jen and I'm addicted to iPhone photo applications

I'm posting these for my sister Steph who has been all, "WHAT DOES IT LOOK LIKE TODAY?" as reveling in a reno not your own is far better than actually experiencing the dust, the annoyance of strangers using your toilet and the spirited exchange of ideas that one has with ones neighbors regarding the piece of plywood that was taking up an INCH of their parking space. One might suggest to that neighbor that shoving said piece of wood in a place where the sun does not shine would solve the problem, but I believe that space is currently occupied by said neighbors head. I am not being Biblical in not showering this particular person with love, but given the hole she tears DAILY in my joie de vivre, I feel justified.

ANYHOO.


What we have here, my friends, is progress. You have to keep in mind that they tore out everything on Wednesday. EVERYTHING. And two days later we have a whole bank of new, shiny cabinets that I'm going to go down and rub my naked body all over. There will be no photos of THAT, mind you. You're welcome.


It IS impressive what they have accomplished in a few short days. I think my threatening to water board them if they weren't done tout suite had something to do with it. It's all in the delivery.

Tomorrow the granite chap comes to measure, I have to go and buy some flooring from the Mensa like people over at Home Depot, we'll get the sink in early next week and then PRESTO! New kitchen!

I've come to the conclusion that going through a renovation is not unlike being stuck on the New Jersey Turnpike. I probably don't even have to go into detail as to how the two compare as anyone who has been been in that situation will nod sagely and then go and weep in a corner. And I realize that we are only three days in and therefore terrible wimps to be complaining about ANYTHING AT ALL. My point is that those of you who do this to an entire house or who attempt to do it yourselves, I admire you.

I also think you're a special sort of crazy. That is all.

Better than a shiny new toothbrush

I had to go to the dentist today. Unremarkable, I know. You'll all be pleased to note that my tendency to binge floss two weeks before any dentist visit paid off and the hygienist stated with a dramatic sigh and an accidental squirt to my face with the rinsing gun that she wished her other patients were as diligent. I nodded sagely as I dabbed at my eyes, lamenting with her how those other people make her job so much more difficult.

I left with my new toothbrush and the promise to continue my flossing habits. As I walked outside and towards my car, a mother was trying to console her toddler who wasn't having any of it. The mother looked sleep deprived and in a last ditch effort to understand her child who was letting off a high pitched "fehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" sort of half screamed, "JUST TELL ME WHAT IS HURTING YOU SO THAT I CAN FIX IT!"

Her tone stopped the boys whine and he looked at her, wounded that she would dare raise her voice when clearly that was his job. Writhing around in his stroller so that he could adequately point to his bottom he looked up at his mother and said through his sniffles, "I. Have. The. Backdoor trots."

BACKDOOR TROTS.

Just let that soak in for a moment and tell me that's not the best thing you've heard all day.

Heh.

The birds. They have flown south.

There are, in short, no more birds. For this, I could not be more grateful. Honestly. Last night I was near tears, having spent the better portion of a week packing, sorting and wondering why two people and a dog need so many damned spatulas. Suffice to say, some of the kitchenware that has spent the duration of our marriage stuffed in the back of various drawers made its way to the great kitchen in the sky - otherwise known as my brothers house. My rule became: if I haven't touched you in over six months, you don't get to take up my precious cabinet space. Last night I had had enough. The last box had been packed, the final dish stashed and we were both trying to subdue Kylie who was wondering what the hell was going on and why her living room had suddenly become a makeshift kitchen. Out of fatigue and just general hatred of the color orange, I started vandalizing my own home. If you ever need to get some aggression out and want to practice your penmanship, I highly recommend it.

I feel compelled to state that my handwriting is usually much better than this. The Ambien I had taken a few minutes earlier kept me from writing in a straight line.

My art major, being put to good use. I killed in Drawing 101 with my stick figures and smiley faces.

So this morning, I rubbed the countertops with my middle finger and when I came home! THEY WERE GONE! BEHOLD!:



A view into and out of the kitchen. With Kylie's rear. She had to sniff every square inch of floor space when we came home as STRANGERS HAD BEEN IN THE HOUSE. I believe she has come to the conclusion that it is all right for us to stay here and quite likes the new space between the kitchen and dining room as it allows her more convenient access throughout the front part of the downstairs. I like it myself, but we need the cabinets that are going to go there so the both of us will have to be content with a pass through and less floor space.

As the workers were leaving, one of them said, "Don' worry. We move stove back to kitchen when everything done." He's Chinese, so the accent is approximated. Not that I had thought that it was STAYING in the middle of my dining area as that would be the height of awkward, but I suppose it would solve the problem of getting food to the table while it's still warm. You could just fling it from one surface to the other all while screaming, "HOT PLATE HOT PLATE!" And while I'm all for a good shortcut, that might really be pushing things.

Say it with me: NO MORE BIRDS!

I'm afraid that anything I attempt to write today is going to be tainted with the fact that I AM SO TIRED. Really, I am. It's true that I didn't sleep particularly well last night. Marc has been gone for a week and finally returned home last night and so after 6 days, I had to reintroduce myself to his nightly activities which include stealing covers, pillows and invading my side of the bed. Understand that I missed him dreadfully and was terribly happy for him to arrive home, but he is as active in sleep as he is in life and it takes some getting used to when you've had all of that mattress acreage to yourself. Kylie sleeps up there with me when he is gone, but the most she does is press a paw into your forehead when she's ready to get up, and that's usually around 9am. Oh the bliss of a pet that follows your sleep patterns.

No, the real reason for my fatigue is that I spent a lions share of this last week and all of the weekend packing the kitchen up for our reno that starts tomorrow. Did you know that two people can have, like, 201 sets of dishes? And almost an equal amount of glassware? I'm not sure where it comes from as I swear we had only 8 wine glasses once upon a time - I think they procreated behind closed doors one night as I was packing and packing and PACKING and wondering if it would ever end and if my life might be much improved if I threw it all into the recycling bin and just walked away. Either that or we need to cut down on our booze consumption. WHAT? Somewhere Marc's heart just stopped.

So most of it is done. I have a wee bit more to finish up today along with making a temporary kitchen on top of our bookcase in the living room so that Marc can still have his morning coffee and toast. He'll most likely take the time between brewing and consumption to read some Camus or Stegner or Rand, what with the proximity to good literature and all. We like to keep our brains working, you know, despite our surroundings.

I'll take some photos of the process but for now I'm focused on the fact that THERE WILL BE NO MORE BIRDS by the end of the week. Sweet fancy Moses, I can't tell you how happy that makes me. The glee in my heart, it's immeasurable. For now, I'm off to pack up the remaining items. Or throw them out. I'll see how I feel after that shot of tequila that's calling my name.

Hall of horrors

Hello! I have had too many Mike & Ike's and while the sugar was coursing through my veins, I took pictures of our aesthetically challenged house. You know. Those photos I promised you last week? Before I came down with something we'll call a cold but felt more like pleurisy. Or consumption. Take your pick. Regardless, I finally took the photos and am ready to take you on a tour of Things That Will No Longer Be. Come along, won't you?

Let's start in the kitchen. The cabinets and counter tops will be torn out in about 10 days. And I will never again have to look at the birds. That are flying...where? It's hard to say. But they are directionally challenged and I have a hard time not stabbing myself in the eye each morning when I come down and look at them, flying without regard for my feelings all over the back splash. I wish I could tell you that the color, that lovely beautiful rust color, was a trick of the camera. Alas, someone actually thought it would be a good idea to install not only the tiles, but then a counter of a matching hue. THEY WILLINGLY CHOSE IT. To have poo colored birds and counters. They must have been hopped up on WAY more than Mike & Ike's. I'm doing your eyes a favor by only showing you a sliver of the place. You're welcome.

Let's move on to the cabinets, shall we? Again, so as not to offend, here is a mere glimpse. The 1980's came to roost and never left. We'll be watching movies from that era and either Marc or I will go, "Hey look! Our cabinets!" I'm sure if I looked hard enough, Tom Cruise would be lurking in a corner somewhere. I'd have to shoo him off to the Scientology center down the street because we really don't have the space to spare, no matter how small he is. And no, I didn't open the door in that jaunty manner so that you could get a better view of the veneer that covers the plywood doors. The door is ajar because it decided to stop shutting last week. Just like that. I think it knows its days are numbered and is expressing its displeasure. The door can just SUCK IT.

Behold! Our faucet! As faucets go, it's totally functional. It's also totally ugly. So OUT. OUT WITH YOU. It should be mentioned that we have some of the most awesome water pressure known to man. This faucet amplifies it somehow and we're often baptized by the enthusiastic spray of water that issues forth. It's not uncommon when we're having a dinner party to hear guests shriek, "WWWLLLLAAAHHHHHHGAH!" and then come out of the kitchen completely soaked down the front. They often make some succinct observation - "You have crazy strong water pressure." Indeed. So we'll be getting a deeper sink and a faucet to mitigate some of that flow. Again, you're welcome. AND MY GOD THOSE BIRDS ARE EVERYWHERE.

And then we come to the lights. We have three of these beauties that flew in from the planet Fluvenzorgen some 20 years ago, found out that Earth girls were easy and never left. Honestly. Beyond the problems I have with the person who BOUGHT this, I have an even bigger bone to pick with the person who DESIGNED it. They ought to have their colored pencils revoked immediately.

See? Here's one of the original little guys. Captain Fritz. He's coming off of a bender but has enough energy to say hello. He's the fleet commander and I find him in states of disrepair all over the house. I think he's figured out how to get into the liquor cabinet.

So the tour is now finished and I hope I haven't seared your eyes with the birds and the brown and the rust and the ugliness. To be quite frank, I'm just happy to have a home and a kitchen and all of the amenities that many other people do without. I ought not to be complaining about the flight patterns of my tile as we are fortunate to be able to call that tile our own - AND to be able to RIP IT OUT. It will be nice to have that gone. You'll all be invited over for dinner. You just might have to bring your own food. And eat outside. To keep the new kitchen clean.